


New Day, New Age

by StarSpray



Series: Wisdom of the Evening Star [21]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month, Gen, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: It was the most thrilling thing, to sail away and watch the coastline of Middle-earth dwindle and fade into a dark line on the horizon, and then to vanish completely.





	New Day, New Age

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Back to Middle-earth Month Bingo, for the prompts "Numenor" and "Elros" for the Second Age card, "the ocean" for the Setting as a Character card, "majesty" for the Color Burst: Purple card, and "...makes me take measure of myself / one iota pondering heaven" and "We should take small thoughtful steps. But, bless us, we didn't" on the Late Great Mary Oliver card.

It was the most thrilling thing, to sail away and watch the coastline of Middle-earth dwindle and fade into a dark line on the horizon, and then to vanish completely. To be surrounded wholly by water and sky. By day all was blue, the sea only slightly darker than the cloudless sky, punctuated by the foam-tipped crests of waves, or by pods of dolphins or whales coming to the surface to spout air and water high into the air.

Sometimes dolphins would swim alongside the fleet, chattering and leaping up as high as the decks to the delight of everyone watching. Children hung over the railing, enraptured by the sight. Elros swung from the rigging, his eyes on the ships following behind his own, and on the horizon ahead of them—and on his father's ship, just visible as a ship behind the bright light of the Silmaril that hung before them as a beacon and a guide. By night the Silmaril-light made a path before them in the water, straight as a dwarf road and bright as the moon. And everywhere else the stars shone on the water and it was impossible to see where the sea stopped and the sky began—it was like they were flying with his father through the vastness of the Void, their great ships reduced to the size of toys in the face of so much space.

Flying would be the only thing better, Elros thought, than sailing through a moonless night.

The journey lasted many days. More than once the fleet was joined by Ulmo, rising like a great wave out of the sea, all terror and majesty and joy, to call his greetings, or by Uinen who glided along just beneath the surface with her foamy hair trailing out into their wake. Her voice echoed out of the depths in wordless songs that the minstrels among the Edain took up on their harps and their flutes and their horns, and for which they wrote new words of hope and light and life.

At last, on a morning just as the sun was rising, Elros sensed a change. He climbed the rigging to the crow's nest, clutching his spyglass, as Uinen rose laughing out of the water to wave at him. From one of the other ships came a burst of music, and Uinen sang along, swaying in a sort of dance, if water could be said to dance. In the far distance, there was something new on the horizon, a dark smudge that, slowly, grew darker and more defined, until a single island, with a mountain rising up out of the waters, was visible. As word spread through the fleet a great cry went up, cheering and crying and singing. Elros remained atop the crow's nest, unable to take his eyes from it, this new island, brought up out of the Sea just for them. A home where they could build anything, become anything, without any fears or cares or worries except what they made themselves.

It was amazing. It was wonderful.

It was terrifying.

After some days, as they drew ever closer they could see forests and fields, the whole island covered in myriad shades of green, but for the bare top of the mountain. And something else was happening—Vingilot was drifting ever lower, until at last, so close that Elros did not need his spyglass to see the mariners busy upon the deck, it landed in the water so smoothly that there was barely a splash.

"Can he do that?" asked one of Elros' own mariners as he swung back down to the deck. "I thought Lord Eärendil was not permitted to return to the world."

"He cannot set foot on mortal lands," said Elros. "I don't remember anyone banning him from the waters." He suspected that some of the Valar might now regret the wording of their edict, but that Ulmo would not be one of them. "Bring us in to meet them," he added.

The last clear look at Vingilot Elros had gotten had been a mere glimpse as it glided over his head after the last battle before Thangorodrim. He had not seen the defeat of Ancalagon, having been busy trying to keep his men from fleeing before the onslaught of the winged dragons. The last time he had seen his father, he had been a small child. The day Eärendil had left Sirion for the last time (although no one had known it then) had been sunny and cloudless; the sea had been sparkling, the birds had been calling loudly to one another in the reeds and rushes of Sirion; the fishermen had come in from the morning's catch with full nets and bright songs on their lips. Eärendil had been bright with excitement and certainty; Elros remembered hearing him tell their mother that he was certain that this time he would find a way. He did not remember what Elwing had said in reply—he and Elrond had been busy racing each other around the deck, dodging between Aerandir and nearly tripping up Falathar more than once, so that he threatened to toss them both into the harbor. When it had come time for the ship at last to cast off, Eärendil had knelt and embraced both Elrond and Elros tightly, kissing them all over their faces. He had told them that he loved them, that he would miss them terribly, and he had promised to return as soon as he could.

Only he never had. After Sirion was sacked Elros had been furious about it. That anger had simmered inside him for a very long time, even after he'd grown up and come to understand that his father's presence would likely not have changed anything about that day. Then he had grown some more and come to understand that Eärendil's absence on that day was what had saved them all from coming entirely, in the end, under the power of Morgoth. And it was very difficult to be angry with someone who you barely remembered, and didn't really know. Let alone with a star.

Now it was many decades and a world-changing war later, and Elros was a king and Eärendil was a hero and a legend. And here they were, meeting just in sight of a new land made for Men, before Ulmo and Uinen and before hundreds of Elros' people. It should be dignified and solemn, to be written in history books. But before they were close enough for the gangplanks to be lowered across the space between their ships, Elros forgot all about dignity and took a running start from the middle of the deck, jumping once onto the railing and leaping across to the deck of Vingilot. A cry of alarm went up from his mariners; in the distance Ulmo's laughter was like low thunder.

Elros hit the familiar deck and stumbled forward. As he caught himself and straightened, he looked up to see his father descending to the deck from the helm, laughing. He was not wearing the Silmaril, as so many of the songs claimed—that was hung on the mast over their heads like a lantern. He was clad in simple clothes, his hair cropped to his shoulders and hanging loose and unadorned. A single emerald set in silver hung on a chain around his neck. And he was laughing as he held out his arms to embrace Elros.

"Father!" Elros threw his own arms around Eärendil, startled to find as he did so that he was taller now than his father. That seemed wrong, somehow. Eärendil had always loomed so large in his memories and imagination.

Eärendil noticed this, too. "How did you get so tall!" he exclaimed, still laughing. He pulled back to look up at Elros, his hands still grasping at his arms. He was little changed, though there were lines around his eyes that Elros did not remember being there before. "Look at you!" Eärendil said, now a little breathless, staring at Elros as though drinking in the sight of him. They stood in silence for a moment, just looking, laughter replaced by something not quite solemn, but more melancholy.

"What is it like?" Elros asked, nodding toward the island in the distance. "From above?"

Eärendil's smile returned. "Shaped like a star," he said, "with the mountain you see rising in the center. It is green and fertile and beautiful. I cannot wait to see what you will build there." He glanced over Elros' shoulder towards the fleet. "I am so proud of you, Elros. You and your brother." Warmth blossomed beneath Elros' breastbone. "I have something for you." Eärendil released him and moved away, back towards the helm. Elros followed, passing by one of the sailors who stood near the railing—a Maia with hair that glittered like stardust and eyes that burned like the sun. He smiled at Elros before turning back to the water, where he seemed to be in silent conversation with something. Uinen, perhaps, or Ossë, or maybe just the water itself.

Elros had "sailed" Vingilot before, grasping the helm as his father held him, and the ship drifted through the Bay of Balar. It had seemed like such a grand adventure then. The ship seemed smaller now; it too glittered, as though someone had scattered diamond dust over the decks. Or perhaps it was truly stardust. Eärendil picked up a thick packet from beside the helm and held it out. Elros took it, but did not open it yet. "Your mother sends her love," Eärendil said.

"I wish," Elros said, but stopped. It wasn't fair to anyone to voice wishes aloud.

But his father guessed what he had been about to say. "Ulmo and I have something of an understanding," he said. "There is no harm in bending the rules once in a while." He walked with Elros back down to the deck; by now the gangplanks had been properly set out, and the Maiar were exchanging greetings with Elros' people, none of whom had quite enough courage to cross over onto Vingilot.

Eärendil jumped onto the railing, grasping a rope with one hand, and silence fell over the other ship, and those others now close enough to hear him call out, as he held up his other hand. "Men of Middle-earth!" he cried. "See now the Land of Gift, Elenna, Westernesse, brought forth from the depths of the Sea for you, who have fought so long and so bravely against the Shadow!" A cheer went up, and when it died down Eärendil went on, "Build now new homes, plant new gardens, sing new songs! _Utúlie'n aurë!"_

The Edain answered, in a cry that echoed over the vast waters, _"Auta i lómë!"_

High King Fingon had cried those words before the battle that had spelled his doom, and unnumbered tears for so many others. But as the sun rode high over their heads the words now rang true, for it was a new day and a new Age in which there was no darkness to cloud the day.

Eärendil jumped back down to the deck and embraced Elros. "Farewell for now, my son," he said.

"Fair sailing, Father," Elros replied. He crossed back to his ship on the gangplank, and stood by the railing as it was drawn back and Vingilot turned away. As the fleet continued forward his father's ship picked up speed, though there was no new wind, and as smoothly as it had set down it left the water, trailing droplets that glittered like gems as they fell back into Uinen's outstretched palms, and the ship continued on, up and away, until it was at last no more than a bright twinkling in the morning sky, and the Land of Gift rose larger and clearer in their sights, the green turning to forests and fields, and its coasts gleaming in the sun with white sand.

They were home.


End file.
